The Durian Detour
The Proton X70 hummed along the North-South Expressway, a silver streak against the green Malaysian landscape. Inside, the air was thick with easy laughter and the melancholic strains of David Gray’s "Dear Life." Mina, hands light on the wheel, glanced at the rearview mirror, a small smile playing on her lips as she listened to the banter from the backseat.
“Whose album is that?” Yati asked, her voice a warm murmur from the back.
Mina, eyes fixed on the road, replied, “David Gray’s latest. It’s called ‘Dear Life.’”
“Huh, never heard of him,” Yati mused. “But his voice… it’s nice. Suitable for bedtime, actually.”
Rani, ever the historian of trivial facts, chimed in. “Oh, he was big in the 90s. Don’t know much about him though. Married, two kids, British. No pictures of the family, though. Maybe they’re just… figments of his imagination.”
Mina chuckled, a hint of something mischievous in her eyes. “People love mysteries, don’t they?”
A wave of giggles swept through the car. “Like the mystery of rubbish in Turun Anwar,” Yati added, and the laughter erupted again.
Rita, quiet until now, turned to Mina. “Mina, your brother-in-law is a musician, right?”
Mina hesitated for a beat, then replied, “Yeah, he’s always in the studio, day and night. Other than that, a regular guy. He and my sister are on holiday in Bintan Island for a week.”
Jen, who had been drumming her fingers on the dashboard, suddenly piped up, “What if there’s no durian? This whole trip will be for nothing!” Her voice held a mock-dramatic tone.
Mina, ever the pragmatist, offered reassurance. “Even without durian, there’ll be something. We have nasi padang, and the famous Yik Mun Pau. Lots of options.”
Rani’s eyes lit up. “Yik Mun Pau! My dad used to buy them every time he came back from KL. It’s been a familiar sight since my school days.”
“Yes, I know Yik Mun Pau,” Jen agreed, a wistful note in her voice. “But the taste has changed, hasn’t it? Not like before. So many frozen paus now. Nothing fresh.”
“So, what about this nasi padang?” Rita asked, her curiosity piqued. “I don’t know that one.”
“There’s a small shop, famous with people from out of town,” Mina explained. “A bit expensive, but so tasty.”
Yati, gazing out the window, suddenly said, “You know, there’s a KTM from Shah Alam to Tanjong Malim. I’ve thought of taking it one of these days.”
“That’s an interesting train ride,” Mina replied, her eyes briefly meeting Yati’s in the rearview mirror.
Just then, Rita pointed ahead. “Mina, I see R & R. We can take a short rest.”
Mina nodded, steering the Proton X70 towards the exit. As they pulled into the Rest and Relax area, the familiar strains of David Gray faded, replaced by the excited chatter of five friends, ready for whatever mysteries and delights Tanjong Malim held, durian or not. Yet, as they stretched their legs, a quiet thought lingered in Mina's mind, a melody unseen, unheard, a secret that was as much a part of her world as the durian they sought and the brother-in-law she’d just mentioned. After all, sometimes the best mysteries aren't about what you don't know, but about what you choose not to say.
Tessa Yusoff
1 August 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
After the Harvest: A New Melody
Timah recently celebrated her 58th birthday with her children, a simple affair at a neighborhood restaurant. The air was filled with the comforting aromas of Malaysian favorites: rich masak lemak itik salai, spicy kari kepala ikan, and savory sayur kangkung belacan.
Her eldest daughter, ever thoughtful, presented her with a CD titled "Dear Life." Timah wasn't disappointed, but the album's title made her feel a pang of age. "Dear Life," she mused. "Am I really that old?" She wasn't sure if she knew the singer. "Who is David Gray?" she asked. Her daughter explained he was a British singer-songwriter, famous for a song called "Babylon." Timah chuckled, thinking of Boney M.'s disco hit "Rivers of Babylon."
For a few days, the CD sat on her table, an intriguing mystery. Finally, curiosity won, and she decided to play it. The moment the music began, Timah was captivated. His voice—glorious, distinct, and beautiful, she thought. The song "After the Harvest" started, and with it, a journey back in time.
She was transported to Sekinchan, to the rice fields where her parents, padi farmers, toiled. She remembered the post-harvest ritual: spreading the rice on tarps, stirring it meticulously, meticulously picking out stray leaves and dirt. Her father would sometimes slip away to the coffee shop for a break, while her mother's sewing machine hummed a steady rhythm.
But then, a different image surfaced as the lyrics washed over her: "And maybe I should know better / Than to take it personally / When the hand that wrote the love letter / Decides to write you out the story." Timah paused, a frown creasing her brow. "Is this guy sad?" she wondered aloud. For her, "after the harvest" meant relaxation, a time for new ventures to bring in income, lessons instilled by her parents. Why would he be sad? Was it a love gone wrong? Who could possibly hurt someone with such a beautiful, distinctive voice? Perhaps, she concluded, it was just his imagination. Regardless, it was a truly beautiful song to listen to.
As the last notes faded, Timah found herself smiling. Even if she didn't fully grasp the melancholy behind the lyrics, the music itself had stirred something within her. It was a bridge between her past and present, a reminder that even new, unfamiliar melodies could resonate deeply, offering comfort and sparking reflection. She looked at the CD case again, "Dear Life." Perhaps life, with all its unexpected turns and new discoveries, wasn't so bad after all.
Tessa Yusoff
29 July 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
The Echo of Plus and Minus
John sat on the worn wooden bench, the morning sun dappling through the leaves above. His jogging suit, though clean, carried the faint scent of countless runs that never quite happened. Around him, the park buzzed with the quiet rhythm of life: a lone jogger pounding the path, a child's gleeful shriek from the playground, the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze. Through his phone, David Gray's voice filled his ears, the new song "Plus and Minus" an odd, almost unsettling melody. "The following report may contain scenes that some might find upsetting," Gray crooned, and John felt a peculiar resonance. The lyrics, like phantom whispers, began to unravel the tangled threads of his own past and present.
He drifted back to the 80s, a kaleidoscope of scraped knees and endless summer afternoons spent building forts in the woods. Childhood then was a vast, untamed wilderness of independent exploration, a stark contrast to the digitally tethered, meticulously scheduled lives his own children now led. Their world was a tapestry woven with screens and structured playdates, a universe away from his youthful freedom.
The 90s arrived, bringing with them the sharp scent of photocopier toner and the rigid discipline of the workplace. He remembered the satisfying thud of the attendance book as he signed in, the crisp snap of the punch card marking his arrival. Administrative reforms, they called it, aimed at boosting productivity and discipline. Cubicles were fortresses of individual endeavor, and the notion of work-life balance was a distant, almost alien concept. Technology, in its nascent form, meant wrestling with sluggish computers and deciphering smudged fax transmissions. Physical documents reigned supreme, their weight a tangible representation of progress.
Then came 2022, and with it, the bittersweet release of retirement from the private sector. Three years ago this month, he'd stepped away, though it felt like an eternity. He’d seen the "unretirement" trend among his friends – a surprising return to the grind, fueled by a tight labor market, diminishing COVID-19 fears, and the persistent bite of inflation. "Retirement is not the end of the road," one friend had declared, his eyes bright with renewed purpose, "it is the beginning of the open highway."
John, however, had found his open highway leading straight to this park bench. He was a connoisseur of park life: the stately trees, the vibrant green of the grass, the riot of colors in the flowerbeds. He knew every creak of the swings, every gleam of the slides. The shimmering surface of the lake, the meandering walking paths – all were familiar companions. People of all ages drifted in and out of his periphery: lovers strolling hand-in-hand, families picnicking, teenagers laughing. He was just another one of them, merely passing the time. He had to stop daydreaming.
His doctor friend, a voice of reason in his increasingly meandering days, had stressed the importance of finding fulfilling activities in retirement. "Pursue hobbies, volunteer, travel, learn new skills, spend time with loved ones," he'd advised. "Stay physically and mentally active." John, though, just sat. And listened to David Gray. Perhaps, he mused, a job. A new one, where his time was exchanged for a tangible wage. Patrick Foley’s words echoed in his mind: "Retirement is a blank sheet of paper. It is a chance to redesign your life into something new and different."
The "Plus and Minus" of David Gray's song continued to play, its melancholic melody a backdrop to John's contemplation. Was this blank sheet of paper truly an opportunity, or just an expanse of white waiting to remain empty? He shifted on the bench, the smooth wood cool beneath his hand. Maybe it was time to put down the phone, to silence the echoes of the past, and to truly look at the present. The park wasn't just a place to pass time; it was a canvas. And perhaps, just perhaps, he still had some colors left to paint.
Tessa Yusoff
23 July 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
